


A Bed Half Empty

by SpiritsFlame



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pinings, Use Your Words, boys are stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsFlame/pseuds/SpiritsFlame
Summary: When Percy wakes up alone, he takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe.Distantly, he can almost hear his aunt saying 'I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed' the last time he and Monty had gotten into something stupid. That's how Percy feels now. Hollowed out, aching with disappointment, but not angry.It's his own fault. He knows who Monty is, he's always known. It was his own fault for expecting- for hoping—





	A Bed Half Empty

When Percy wakes up alone, he takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe. 

Distantly, he can almost hear his aunt saying 'I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed' the last time he and Monty had gotten into something stupid. That's how Percy feels now. Hollowed out, aching with disappointment, but not angry.

It's his own fault. He knows who Monty is, he's always known. It was his own fault for expecting—for hoping—

He stretches out a hand and feels the other side of the bed, and even the sheets have gone cold, lost whatever body heat Monty may have pressed there in the night. It's Percy's fault for thinking it would go any differently. 

“The trick,” he can recall Monty saying, sprawled out over the chair in Percy’s dorm room, “is to be gone before they even wake up. It’s terribly awkward if you have to pull on your pants with an audience.”

Had Monty woken up, pulled on his pants and jeans in secret haste? Quietly, careful not to wake Percy up? Why not. He certainly has enough practice at it. 

Monty was always gone before they woke up. That was his rule. No repeats, no encores. Percy had thought he was different. He’d thought— 

When he turns his head into the pillow beside him, traces of Monty’s cologne still linger, proof that it actually happened. He breathes in once, twice, and feels tears sting at the corner of his eyes. 

He had thought—Monty had kissed him. Monty had been the one to initiate it, and Percy had been so fucking happy that he hadn’t thought about that fact that it was a party, that Monty was doubtless drunk, that Monty’d had a drink in his hand all evening. 

And Percy had kissed back, and when Monty had looked at him, his eyes had been wide with wonder and delight and Percy had let himself believe—

He can’t stay here. It still smells like Monty and it’s unbearable. If he stays here, he’ll have to face the truth: Monty left, and he’s not going to come back.

Still, he can’t help but look for a note, a message, hell, a text. 

Nothing.

He and Monty had lived together for one agonizing semester, a semester filled with Monty coming back in at five in the morning, his shoes in his hand so that the noise wouldn’t wake Percy. He can practically see Monty going home the same way now, his hair mussed, his mouth still red from the night before. Opening the door to the apartment Monty has to himself, sheepish, maybe a little embarrassed at having accidentally slept with his best friend.

_ “It’s not a walk of shame if you’re not ashamed, darling.” _

Percy gets halfway down the block before he realizes that he has his pajama shirt on over his jeans, but god, he can’t even make himself care. He can’t go back to the empty apartment right now.

  
  


* * *

Monty is already at the cafe when Percy arrives, which is a surprise in and of itself. He jumps up when he sees Percy and Percy truly, honestly hates the way that Monty still seems to light up when he sees him, still looks so fucking pleased like he hadn't just left, like he hadn't just crushed Percy and damaged almost fifteen years of friendship.

But not ruined. No, Percy will always be a sucker for Monty, and even this casual disregard won’t keep Percy away long.

"Hey!" Monty says, rocking on his toes. "How was rehearsal?" He moves in for a hug, and Percy allows it. He doesn't have it in him to hug back, and after a moment Monty lets him go, looking slightly less supremely confident. 

Percy frowns, confused. "What rehearsal?"

Monty, who was stretching up on his toes closer to Percy for some reason, drops back down. "Your morning practice? Didn't you have rehearsal this—"

"Look, can we just sit?" Percy interrupts, not wanting to get pulled into a long discussion.

"Sure, of course!" 

Monty, the utter asshole, actually pulls Percy's chair back for him. Percy wants to scream, wants to shove him away and make him stop doing this to Percy's heart, but he just takes a seat.

"So," Monty says, taking his own seat and leaning forward. His posture is the polar opposite of Percy, who leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, trying vainly to protect himself from the sunshine warmth that is Monty's presence. He'll only get burned. He only ever gets burned. "Last night was—"

Percy can't bear it. He's not sure which direction Monty will take this in. He had honestly expected Monty to never mention it again, but with his usual lack of tact, Monty was clearly planning on barreling through the rest of Percy's emotional defenses. What will he say next? Propose they continue, a friends with benefits arrangement? Say it can never happen again? Thank Percy for being an easy lay? He feels nauseated at the thought and he cuts Monty off before any of the possibilities can manifest into reality. 

"—a mistake," he finishes for Monty.

Monty's mouth falls open, the rest of his sentence left unsaid. "I—what?"

"I know," Percy says, and all of his concentration is on keeping his voice steady, his face calm. "We both had too much drink."

Monty shakes his head. "I hardly had any—" 

Percy tries to soften. Monty has been getting increasingly dodgy about alcohol, and he hates it most of all when Percy brings up his excess, but Monty had spent the entire night with a drink in his hand, topping it up so quickly that Percy hardly ever saw it empty. 

"Monty," Percy says, trying to keep the accusation or worse, the hurt, out of his voice. "You know how much I value our friendship."

Monty makes a low, choked noise that Percy can't even begin to fathom and Percy hesitates. Monty clears his throat. "Sorry, I—sorry. Continue," his voice is strained, tense.

"Your friendship means everything to me, Monty," too much, pull back, "and last night was," amazing, breathtaking, devastating, "a mistake," he says again. 

"Right, yes, obviously," Monty says in a rush. Obviously. God. Percy would rather like to lie down and die now. Still, he's glad to have been the one to start, because if he has to hear Monty say the word mistake in his lovely, overly educated posh accent, he may just burst into tears right here at the table. 

"Sorry," Monty continues. "I didn't mean to make you," he waves a hand, and Percy follows it's trajectory with his eyes, because it's easier than looking at Monty's face, "uncomfortable. I mean, I did drink so much. Just, so much alcohol."

Percy swallows and tries not to say something cutting about that, because he knows Monty is trying and Percy orbits in Monty's presence so much it was only natural he eventually be collateral damage. 

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," Percy replies.

Monty gives him a strained smile, and Percy wonders if he's still hungover. It's past noon, but that's never stopped him before. 

"Good," Monty says. "I'm glad." 

For a moment, they sit there, and Percy can't think of anything to say. He hadn't had much to drink last night himself, so it keeps coming to him in flashes of perfect clarity. Monty's hands on his hips, Monty's mouth on his, the warmth of Monty's body, of his smile.

"I'd better run," Percy lies. 

"Right, yes, of course." Monty stands up so quickly that his chair scrapes back and falls over. "Oh, fuck."

"Monty," Percy says slowly, feeling ice in his veins. "Are those roses?"

Monty follows Percy's gaze to where a bouquet of roses had been resting under the chair, hidden.

"Oh! Yes." Monty laughs nervously. "I have a date after this. You know, one of the photographers from last week. Carol or Caroline or Christine, one of those C names, you know. And she's being stubborn, you know, so I thought—roses!" His voice cracks on the last word. Percy hardly notices, still staring at the splash of red on the ground.

That last night meant so little, that Monty had brought roses for someone else to their lunch, it's almost. Percy can hardly even breathe around the thought. 

"Oh. Right. Good luck."

He flees.

* * *

Percy throws himself into practice. It’s easier than the alternative, remembering the look on Monty’s face, the bright contrast of the red roses on the floor. Easier than remembering the way Monty had pressed back into his hands, had moaned Percy’s name, had seemed to give himself up utterly, and then been gone when Percy woke up.

He and Monty are both posed on the brink of their respective careers, each on the bridge between anonymity and fame, and so it is easy enough to avoid seeing him. It’s startling easy. He’s never tried it before. 

It’s impossible, now, not to realize how much time he has purposely carved out for Monty, moments where he instinctively reaches for his phone, where he turns down invitations, where he takes the Tube north instead of south to go to Monty’s apartment instead of his own.

If he had imagined it, imagined a world in which he would be unable to even look at Monty, he would have imagined his life stretching before him, empty hours to fill with nothing to do, the gaping hole in his life that Monty leaves behind.

It’s not like that. Percy attends rehearsals, accepts the invitations to a pub afterwards. He heads south and doesn’t wait for the turn of a key and the creak of the door, because Monty never knocks. There is a show coming up, and he throws himself into rehearsal, lets it sweep him away. Lets himself get lost in the sweep of the bow across the strings and doesn’t think about Monty at all. 

It takes him to the end of the week to realize that, while he has not called or texted Monty, Monty has not called or texted him. He was too busy being relieved at not having to make excuses that it never occurred to him to wonder—

But what could Monty possibly have to avoid? Monty has slept with friends before, had made it clear (the red, red flowers under Monty’s chair— “on the way to a date”) that it had meant nothing to him. But then, Monty is just as busy as Percy is, more and more in demand after every photo shoot he does.

It’s no surprise. Monty is gorgeous, charismatic, charming. He’d all but fallen into modeling, and if Percy loved him any less, he’d probably hate him for it. But then, he knows Monty too well for that, knows how hard he works, and how hard he works on top of that to make it appear otherwise. Monty works twice as hard as anyone else to make it look like everything comes naturally to him, and it’s not out of the question that, without Percy checking up on him, he’s overworking.

Percy throttles that thought, the urge to call and check. He’s not Monty’s minder, nor his keeper, no matter what their schoolmates had thought. He needs to let Monty go, needs to unfurl Monty’s grip on his heart or he’ll be stuck like this forever.

God, who is he fooling? If he hasn’t managed it in the past 10 years, how could he manage it when he knows what Monty looks like, freshly kissed, looking up at Percy like he is everything— as if that wasn’t another lie.

He doesn’t call.

He doesn’t text.  
  
  


* * *

On Tuesday, a week and a half after what Percy has taken, out of sheer desperation, to calling ‘The Incident,’ Monty comes by the Opera House a half-hour before they take lunch. 

He sits in the third row and keeps his eyes on Percy while Percy tries not to fumble his bow. He’s played for Monty before, there doesn’t have to be anything different about it now. Nothing except being surrounded by thirty-something coworkers, on the brink of the rest of his life and with Monty’s eyes on him sparking the memory of Monty looking at him as Percy gently, carefully, opened him up and—his bow skitters across the strings, and Percy jerks his gaze back to his pages.

“Hey.” Monty sidles up to him after they’ve broken for lunch, hands in his pockets, more unsure than Percy is used to seeing him.

“Hey.” Percy feels unsure himself. He hates it.

“Sorry I didn’t—I’ve been busy,” Monty says. “They’re talking about putting me on the cover, so it’s been fittings and light tests all week.”

“It’s fine,” Percy says, and anxiously waits for Monty to ask why Percy hasn’t reached out either. Monty doesn’t. Percy doesn’t know if he’s relieved that Monty hadn’t asked, or scared that Monty hadn’t even noticed. After all, Monty had his date with Carol or Caroline or Christine. Monty can go to the pub and pull any person he wants, can order a glass of whiskey, or two, or three, and forget any of this even happened.

The moment hangs betweens them, when Monty doesn’t ask and Percy doesn’t offer.

“Lunch?” Monty suggests, and Percy exhales. 

“God, yes, I’m starving.”

There is a sandwich place down the block, the kind of that Monty of three years ago would have turned up his nose at and the kind that Monty of now makes a line straight towards.

“How’s rehearsal going?” Monty asks, jostling their shoulder together.

“It’s going,” Percy replies. If he lets it just be this, lets himself settle back into old habits, it could be easy.

“How soon until you’re the next Mozart?”

“That’s not—” Percy stops himself, laughing. “At least another few years,” he capitulates instead.

“And how long until you’re the first Percy Newton?” Monty asks, his voice suddenly too soft, and Percy’s heart lurches. Old habits, for him, still means being desperately in love with Monty. There is no age he can regress to, no former version of himself of which that won’t be true. 

“Longer,” he says, and pushes his way to the ordering line so that he won’t have to look at Monty’s face. 

“Oh, don’t say that!” Monty protests. “Didn’t you say that they were talking about doing that one song—with the super difficult violin solo?”

“Shahrazad,” Percy says. “We’re doing it at the next performance”

“You see!” Monty crows. “They wouldn’t even have mentioned it if they didn’t think you could handle it.” Monty’s hand settles on his arm. Percy is used to Monty’s language of touch by now, can feel in Monty’s fingers how Monty is trying to comfort and inspire him. He can’t handle it right now. Even through his long sleeves, Monty’s touch burns.

“I suppose.” He shrugs off Monty’s hand as he gives his order to the cashier. Lately, Monty has been making an effort to pay for both their lunches when they meet up, and Percy is prepared to fight him on it this time, but Monty just waits until Percy has paid before ordering for himself.

“How was your date with C-something?” Percy asks, because he is a masochist who needs to keep driving it home that Monty isn’t his, that Monty won’t ever be his.

Monty’s hand jerks, almost upsetting his water. “It didn’t go well,” he says, and he won’t look at Percy when he says it. “She didn’t want me.”

Percy tries to look the appropriate, best friend amount of surprised by this, and not like this is the most baffling thing he’s ever heard. Monty can be oblivious, arrogant, stubborn, and at times utterly, painfully blind to his own privilege, but he is also kind and funny and so gorgeous that it’s like looking at the sun. 

“Then she wasn’t worth your time,” Percy says definitively. 

Monty makes a hoarse noise in his throat, almost a laugh. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

Percy tries not to frown. Monty always wants to talk about his misfortunes, will bemoan every ache and bruise and perceived slight—right up until it’s something that actually matters. Monty will complain for a week about stubbing his toe, but hadn’t said a word when his father had nearly broken Monty’s ribs. That Monty won’t talk about this is…concerning. 

“Well, I’m here,” he says, instead of pressing. Monty might not be ready to talk about it—unaccustomed to rejection as he surely is—but Percy is equally unready to hear about it. 

For a few minutes, they busy themselves with their lunch, adding condiments as required and not making eye contact. 

“When’s opening?” 

“Two weeks,” Percy says. “But they’re having a gala a few nights before, which should be…” he trails off. “Oh, god.”

“What?” 

“God, Monty, I don’t have a suit.” 

Monty laughs, charming even with his mouth half-full, damn him. “Yes, you do. I saw your tux at the last concert, you looked,” he swallows. “very, uh, very dashing.” 

“I have a performance tux, but not one for, for,” Percy gestures, trying to capture the opulence of the galas. “Not a suit for wining and dining and impressing people.”

Monty makes a face that Percy is intimately familiar with, one that means he’s biting back his first reaction and searching for a more tactful reply. He’s made that face more and more over the years. It’s an improvement from when he never bothered at all, simply blurting out every thought that crossed his mind.

“Don’t you have that one, the blue with the,” he gestures, “and you wore it with the silver tie?”

“You remember that?” Percy asks, surprised.

“Of course,” Monty tilts his chin up in a pretense towards the arrogance he’s mostly outgrown, but his cheeks are strangely flushed. 

“Anyway,” Percy waves it away. “I don’t have that one anymore. 19-year-old Percy had plenty of suits. 26-year-old Percy has a performance tux and I think a nice blazer, somewhere.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Monty says doubtfully.

Percy rolls his eyes. “We can’t all have bespoke suits from Armani.”

Monty waves him off. “Please, as if Armani could afford me. Prada, at least.”

  
  


“Apologies.”

He can still feel Monty’s gaze on him as he eats. When he looks up, Monty is giving a speculative, hesitant look. 

“I could take you,” Monty says slowly. “Suit-shopping, I mean.”

“I can’t afford—”

“Not like that. I couldn’t afford half of what I wear if it wasn’t part of my job. Not since I got cut off.” Disowned, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. “But I know where to get good looking, affordable suits. I could make you look amazing.” There is a moment, where Monty looks like he wants to say more. Then his mouth falls closed, and he just looks at Percy.

It’s a mistake, and Percy knows it. He’s supposed to be creating distance, letting himself get over Monty. 

“That sounds like fun.” As if getting over Monty is even possible, at this point.

And it’s worth it, just for the smile that blooms, wide and bright, over Monty’s face.

* * *

The next week goes a little better. Monty texts Percy. Percy lets himself reply, lets himself be the one to initiate. It feels impossible, to build a barrier up between them, when Monty has become a fundamental part of him, anchored to his bones and the very beat of his heart.

Someday, he’ll be able to look at Monty without remembering the way that his mouth had felt under Percy’s, without hearing the sounds that had Monty made. Without remembering waking up alone, in empty bed and sheets gone cold. 

So, he sticks to texting and tries not to wonder why Monty is so willing to do the same, when they’re both used to living out of one another’s pockets.

On Saturday, Monty knocks on his apartment door, which Percy doesn’t remember happening, ever. Monty has a key for a reason and he’s never been shy about using it. 

“Hey,” Monty says, hands tucked into his pocket, when Percy opens the door. Monty looks into the apartment over Percy’s shoulder, but makes no move to enter. Percy steps aside, gives Monty room to pass him, and Monty doesn’t. “Are you ready to go?” Monty asks, after a beat too long. 

“Uh, yes?” Percy says. If Monty doesn’t want to come in, he’s not going to push it. “Let me grab my wallet.” 

“I’ll wait.”

Alright then.

When Percy meets Monty out in the hall, he’s already feeling like this is a mistake. Monty becoming a model is one of the worst things that has ever happened to Percy, personally. 

Today, Monty is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, more casual than he’d ever dressed before college, but still devastating. Both are tailored perfectly, and he’s done something with his hair, making it settle, soft and inviting, over his brow. 

It’s just short of messy, how he might look after—but then, Percy wouldn’t know.

“Ready?” Monty asks, and he’s barely even looking at Percy. That stings, when Percy had made such an effort, had put on his best shirt and done his hair, even though, God, what’s the point.

“Ready,” Percy agrees.

Monty offers his arm, jokingly gallant, and Percy has to ignore it because the alternative is beyond contemplation. 

They take the Tube together, and Percy is struck anew at how different Monty is now from the boy he grew up with. How different Percy himself is. They’ve grown together, become new people, better people together. 

When he sees where Monty has taken him, Percy laughs.

“Is this your industry source?” he asks, looking up at the wide doors of Harrods. “The well kept secret of London’s largest department store?”

“Luxury department store, darling. We’re working men now, we can’t afford the best of Savile Row like we once could.”

“Ah, the tragedies of the former Lord Montague.”

“Such is life,” Monty says, as if being disowned hadn’t gutted him at the time. As if Monty at 19 wouldn’t have flinched from the very idea of shopping at Harrods, of wearing mass-produced suits. 

“Well then,” Percy says, suddenly bursting with pride, with affection, “lay on, McDuff.”

* * *

It’s strange, that in over fifteen years of friendship, they have never gone shopping together. Though, granted, for the first decade or so, neither of them had gone shopping much at all.

Monty is, somehow, exactly like how Percy would have expected him to be. The men’s fashion section is mostly empty, and Monty has the sales associate eating out of his hand within the first ten seconds. Still, there is something subdued about it, not quite up to his usual flirtation.

Instead, exhilaratingly, all his attention is focused on Percy, holding up jackets and suits and ties to Percy’s face and piling successes into his arms.

“You have to get something as well,” Percy says after the third jacket added to the pile.

“I—what?” Monty stops, clearly surprised.

“Well, you’re my plus-one to the Gala. We can both debut new suits there. You were just saying how your old one doesn’t fit right.” It’s a flimsy excuse at best, when they both know Monty has suits to spare. But Monty still seems thrown off, left holding a shirt in one hand, his other limp at his side.

“You want me to come to the Gala?” he repeats. 

“Yes?” Percy is confused by Monty’s confusion. They are always one another’s plus ones. He’d gone to Monty’s modeling party two weeks ago, and—but then, maybe that was the problem.

“Only if you want to,” Percy adds hastily, trying to force out the thoughts of how that particular event had ended. 

“Yes, of course.” Monty shoves the last shirt into Percy’s hands. “As if I would miss it. I just thought—” He shakes his head. “Nevermind. I’ll go get something for me then.”

Monty is faster at dressing than Percy is, more practice, so when Percy steps out of the changing room, Monty is already preening in front of the mirror. He’s wearing a blue suit, reminiscent of Percy’s old one. 

“That’s very dashing,” Percy says. Monty makes a face at him in the mirror. 

“It’s fine. I can do better.” He turns to face Percy, and Percy can physically feel Monty’s eyes on him.

“This is a good look for you,” Monty says, stepping close. He runs his hands over Percy’s lapels, just a light touch. “It’s a bit,” he tilts his head, considering, “harsh, I think. Maybe try the gray jacket. Keep the black shirt though, for sure.”

“Okay,” Percy says weakly, dizzy with Monty’s proximity. 

Then Monty breathes in sharply and takes a step back. “Sorry,” he says. “I know—sorry.”

Percy can’t imagine what Monty is sorry for, except perhaps leading him on, but Percy knows by now that Monty is just like that. 

“Here, try this as well.” Monty all but throws a black silk vest at Percy.

Percy switches his trousers and blazer for a textured gray that Monty had picked out for him, adds the vest like Monty suggested, and tries not to feel anything about wearing exactly what Monty tells him to.

Once again, Monty is out before him, but this time he’s already facing Percy, not even looking in the mirror.

“You look,” Monty stops, swallows. “That’s the right look, for sure.”

“Thanks,” Percy ducks his head. “It’s not too…” he trails off, not sure what it would be too of. 

“No,” Monty clears his throat. “No, it’s perfect. Come here.” He drags Percy in front of the mirror, lets Percy look at himself. Percy keeps getting distracted by Monty next to him, the way the blue shirt brings out his eyes, the way the gray of his new blazer is a perfect match for Percy’s.

“Is that what you’re getting?” Percy asks, trying to sound casual. Monty looks up at him, for just a moment, then to their reflection. They look like a matched pair, like a couple. Monty takes a step back. 

“No.” Then, “Stay there, I have an idea.”

Percy follows Monty in the mirror, as he heads to the ties and carefully shifts through them, and does the same to the pocket squares. 

When Monty heads back, Percy turns to his own reflection. 

The black button up and the black vest give him a dark, dangerous look, but it’s softened by the gray of the trousers and blazer. When he turns, the sheen on the vest catches the light.

“Here,” Monty pushes a red tie into Percy’s hand. Then he steps in, too close, and tucks a matching pocket square into the jacket. “You’ll want to add color,” he says, and his eyes are following his hands, smoothing a line of fire down Percy’s chest. “And don’t button your blazer.” He deftly unbuttons the jacket, and all breath seems to leave the room. For a moment, Percy is suspended in time, watching the reflection of Monty undoing his clothes, imagining it further, Monty pushing the jacket to the floor and—

Then Monty is taking the tie from his hands, looping it around his neck. “May I?” he asks, as if Percy has it in him to say no, to refuse Monty a single thing. Percy can only tilt his face up in answer, can’t seem to form words or even thoughts.

Monty’s fingers brush against his neck, each touch sparking down Percy’s spine. He can’t do this, can’t stand this. The last time Monty had touched his bare skin had been—

And then Monty is done. Absently, Monty moves to smooth the line of tie over his chest, but then he jerks his hand back. Perhaps Monty is remembering as well. Or maybe Monty doesn’t think of it at all.

“You look amazing,” Monty says softly, and steps off the dais. When Percy looks in the mirror, he has to agree. The pop of red was just what he was missing. 

“All thanks to you,” Percy says, trying to get Monty to smile, unsure what prompted his mood change.

Monty waves him away. “Please.” He hooks his thumb back at the dressing room. “I do have one last thing though.”

Percy uses the opportunity to change back into his street clothes, carefully putting the entire suit back on the individual hangers. When he steps out, Monty is examining himself in the mirror, tugging on the jacket, shifting so that the threads catch the light. He’s not preening though, not showing off for the sale associate or just to play around. 

Instead he looks pensive, almost sad. When he catches sight of Percy in the mirror, the expression drops. 

“So?” he asks, turning to face Percy. “What do you think?”

He looks gorgeous. That’s no surprise, he always does. Percy has seen Monty in so many different things, in every state of dress and undress, in jeans and suits and bundled up with six different coats because he can’t stand the cold. Surely, by now, the sight of Monty should stop making his breath catch.

The jacket is a deep black, just the slightest sheen to it. What truly catches the light is the floral pattern, carefully outlined in silver thread. The shirt beneath it is a rich plum that looks soft to the touch. The trousers themself are pure black, dark as sin, setting off the plum of the shirt, the silver of the floral design. 

“Stunning,” Percy says. 

Monty flashes him that smile, and Percy does actually feel a little stunned. 

“I’m aiming for James Bond’s gayer brother.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Monty sketches a bow, grinning.

“No tie?” Percy asks.

“I don’t need one,” Monty shoots back.

“Yeah, alright.” Percy rolls his eyes, but it’s not like Monty is wrong. The outfit looks fantastic as is. 

While Monty changes back, Percy goes to pay. The total makes him flinch, but he reminds himself that he has the money. The orchestra is well known, successful, and they’ve been trotting Percy out more and more as their young prodigy. He can afford to look the part. 

He’s examining a table of ties, debating getting a few more to switch out, when Monty joins him. He has garment bags of not one, but two suits. 

“What’s the second one?” Percy asks.

“Just another blazer,” Monty says. He’s lying, Percy is sure of that, but he can’t imagine why, so he pushes it away. “You should get that.”

He indicates the tie that Percy has been absently touching. It’s a lovely gray-blue, the exactly the shade of Monty’s eyes.

“It would be good to have extras,” he agrees,and grabs three others to disguise the first. His ears feel hot. It’s only on the way back to the register that he glances at the other ties he’d grabbed. Two of them are innocuous enough, a patterned umber one and a subtle floral one, but the third is the exact plum of Monty’s new shirt.

* * *

It probably says something about Percy that he’s more worried about the Gala than opening night. It’s meant to be an open night for all of the donors of the orchestra. It’s a place to see and be seen, and Percy has never felt a part of it. 

They don’t have rehearsal the day of the gala, even though they only have another three days until opening. Percy sits on the couch, feeling nervous and anxious and overwhelmed. He should be used to it by now, he grew up in the worlds of parties and suits and money. But tonight—the conductor had referenced that Percy would be a focus, would be expected to be doing the entertaining. 

Percy is used to fading into the background—it’s hard for anyone to be the center of attention in a room Monty is in, and Percy is more than happy to let Monty shine. He’s not sure he can do this.

Then, to his surprise, he hears a knock at the door. He has a vague suspicion, but it’s still a surprise to Monty on the other side.

“That’s twice in one week,” Percy says lightly. “Is this going to be a habit?”

“Visiting?” Monty asks, “I’ve been over more than that.”

“Knocking.”

Monty shrugs. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

“A first, for you,” Percy says, stepping aside to let Monty in. 

This time, Percy can’t help but notice the way that Monty hesitates before he steps over the threshold. 

“I could sense you worrying,” he says, brushing past Percy into the living room. “All the way from my apartment.”

“I was not!” Percy lies.

Monty rolls his eyes. “I came to watch a movie before the Gala, but if you’d rather stay here and fret…”

“No!” Percy says, before he can stop himself. It’s not just the Gala, not just the fretting that Monty is right about—it’s that he has hardly seen Monty since the Incident. The Incident itself is still an open wound in his chest, resentment and disappointment and a desperate sadness that well up when he thinks on it too hard. But he still misses Monty. Still wants to be around him.

He expects Monty to be smirking at him, a recognition of a scored victory. But Monty only looks tired. When he meets Percy’s eyes, the expression drops, and he makes a passable imitation of his usual smirk. On someone who knew him less well, it might have worked.

But Percy feels on unstable ground, doesn’t know where to push that won’t leave the world crumbling beneath them. He’s always thought that their friendship could withstand anything, and maybe that’s true. Maybe recent events have only proved him right. But he can’t bear to find out that it’s not the case. 

“What are we watching?” he asks.

Monty suggests an older movie and Percy resists the urge to roll his eyes. He could have guessed. It’s not his favorite movie, nor is it Percy’s, but it’s one of their mutual favorites. It’s what Monty always suggests they put on.

“What about Pride and Prejudice?” he suggests instead. Monty will pretend otherwise, but he loves a romance, and Percy himself has been in the mood for a good period piece.

“No!” Monty says. Percy stares at him. Monty clears his throat. “No, uh, thank you? I just watched it the other day.”

Percy frowns at him. Monty is lying to him. But it’s such a pointless lie, Percy can’t imagine why is even bothering. 

He also, Percy notes, hasn’t sat down. 

“Okay,” Percy says slowly, choosing to let all of it go. He can’t do this right now, can’t focus on Monty’s idiosyncrasies when he has the Gala tonight, when every errant thought of Monty is like worrying a sore tooth. 

After another long moment, Monty suggests an older Dreamworks movie they both like. 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Percy agrees. “Did you want to,” he indicates the couch as he opens up Netflix.

Monty hesitates again before he sits down, as carefully as if the couch were armed to explode at any moment. 

“Did you want anything to drink?” Percy asks as they watch the opening credits roll. He’s never had to ask that, Monty has always been comfortable rummaging through his fridge.

“Nah. Do you even have anything in your fridge this time?” Monty asks, voice teasing. Then he stiffens, bites his lip. “I mean…” he trails off and doesn't explain what he meant.

Percy thinks over the current contents of his fridge—a pack of beer that Monty liked but hadn’t touched in months, half a carton of milk, some butter and some leftover takeout from three nights ago. 

“I could manage a water,” he protests. “Or a drink!”

“God, do you even have any tea?” Monty asks, laughing. 

“Do you?” Percy shoots back, because he’s seen Monty’s apartment. 

“Shut up,” Monty says, and Percy laughs. After a moment, Monty laughs with him, all of the mysterious tension draining out of him as he relaxes back into the couch.

His shoulder touches Percy’s, warm even through their respective shirts. 

“Seriously,” Percy says, rolling his head on his shoulder to look at Monty. At this distance, he seems too close. He seems impossibly far. “Did you want a drink?” This time, he means a Drink, and they both know it. 

Monty opens his mouth and closes it again. “No,” he says slowly. “I—no.”

Percy lets that sit between them, turns his attention back to the movie rather than reply. He’s not used to Monty turning down alcohol. Was it because of the Incident? Did Monty not trust himself? Not trust Percy? Was he so determined to make sure that it never happened again?

Percy digs his fingernails into his palm, trying to push the thought away. To his surprise, he feels Monty’s hand on his own, settling over his clenched fingers. 

“You’re going to be great,” Monty says, voice gentle. “They’re going to love you.”

‘You don’t,’ Percy carefully doesn’t say. It’s not fair. He knows that Monty loves him, cares for him like Monty cares for almost nothing else. It’s not his fault that Percy wants more. 

“You don’t know that,” Percy says instead.

Monty’s hand tightens on his, then withdraws. “I promise,” he says, and his voice is strained. 

Percy’s hand feels cold. He flexes the fingers, feeling the ghost of Monty’s touch. 

“Besides,” Monty adds, when the moment has stretched a beat too long. “You’ll have me there! What could go wrong?”

It’s strange, how those words can evoke such twinned feelings of hope and dread in him. 

* * *

About an hour before he has to leave for the Gala, Percy realizes that Monty doesn’t have his suit. 

“Well, of course not,” Monty says. “I’m going back to mine to change. You need to make your grand entrance, the Orchestra’s young prodigy, and you can’t do that with me on your arm.” He clears his throat. “I’m just going to help you get ready. Do your hair.”

“Do my hair,” Percy repeats, skeptical. 

“Only a little,” Monty promises. 

It’s more than a little, but even Percy has to admit that he looks good. His usual disarray has been styled into something that looks deliberate, just barely falling into his face. When he goes to push it back, Monty catches his hand.

“No, leave it.” Monty is staring at him, inspecting his work. Then he steps back, the tips of his ears gone red. “You’ll do.”

“Gosh,” Percy says dryly. 

“I trust you can manage the suit on your own?” Monty asks. “Or did you need help with the tie again?” His eyes spark wickedly. 

Percy flips him off. “I didn’t need help the first time,” he protests. “You barrelled in and made yourself comfortable, as always.”

Monty flinches back, just slightly and Percy frowns, concerned. Then Monty laughs. “Yes, yes, alright, tie managed. I’m just going to,” he hooks his thumb at the door. “I’ll see you there.”

He leaves with suspicious haste, and Percy can only stare after him in startled surprise. 

But then, he should be used to Monty leaving, shouldn’t he? 

* * *

Percy ends up taking a taxi to the Gala, not trusting his new suit to the Tube. He makes idle chatter with the driver, only half paying attention. His attention is split between his nerves and his confusion over Monty’s behaviour.

He had thought that The Incident hadn’t mattered, hadn’t affected Monty at all. But, looking over the last few weeks, he can’t keep thinking that. Monty had avoided Percy just as much as Percy had avoided him at first, equally unwilling to spend time together. For Percy, it had been an act of self-preservation, and he can’t think of any other motivation from Monty.

Perhaps sheer awkwardness, but Monty in the cafe hadn’t been awkward; he had been relaxed, calm. Happy. Happier than he’s been since then.

Percy isn’t stupid. Oblivious, on occasion, but not stupid. He doesn’t have Monty’s gift of flirtation, but he’s not blind to the lingering looks Monty has been giving him, the way Monty touches him and then withdraws.

The way that Monty could hardly sit on the couch where, less than a month ago, they had exchanged slow, delicate kisses until Percy thought he might shake apart.

“Here,” the driver says, shaking Percy out of his thoughts. 

The Gala is at the Opera house itself, and Percy already feels out of place in the glitter and grandeur. He also, absurdly, feels like Cinderella as he heads up the stairs. With Monty as his fairy godmother. Percy has to bite back a laugh at the thought, and it relaxes him.

He’s not sure what kind of grand entrance Monty had imagined for him when he insisted Percy go alone, but it’s not as if there are stairs or a spotlight to single him out. Instead, he enters with patrons and guests shuffling in through the same doors. 

The Opera house is opulent on its own, no further decoration required. The only concession to the party is the table of hors d’oeuvres and the waiters in smart vests circling with trays of champagne. Percy grabs one immediately. He downs half of it in one go. 

His worst case scenario is having an attack here, or during the show. The alcohol won’t help one way or the other, but it can at least get him to stop dwelling on the possibility. 

He’s barely done when the conductor appears at his elbow, and Percy prays to God the man didn’t see Percy putting away champagne like a teen at a kegger. 

“Percy!” the conductor exclaims, apparently delighted to see him. “At last you’re here—” the party only officially started fifteen minutes ago “—there are some people you have to meet!”

From there, he introduces Percy to donors, to rich socialites, to former members of the Opera who have moved up or on. 

To Percy’s horror, he keeps introducing him as “Our new first chair violinist, Percy Newton. He’s going to go far.”

Despite his best efforts to sip politely, Percy finishes his first glass of champagne fairly quickly, and is half-way through his second—a good portion lost after the conductor suggested to a local composer that he should keep Percy in mind for his next piece—when he sees Monty.

Contrary to his usual habits, Monty hasn’t made himself the center of attention. He’s propped against a wall in the back, the silver on his suit catching the light. He’s watching Percy, a small smile on his face. When Percy meets his eyes, Monty waves, but even at a distance, Percy can see that his ears have gone red. 

“Excuse me,” Percy says to the conductor, already ducking away from the conversation and heading to Monty.

“If it isn’t the man of the hour,” Monty says. Then his eyes catch on Percy’s outfit. “You, ah, you changed your tie.”

Percy’s hand reaches, almost automatically, to touch the fabric. It’s the plum one he’d picked up, an almost perfect match to Monty’s shirt. 

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“It’s…” Monty trails off, reaching out to touch it carefully. He runs his fingers down the silk fabric, and the world seems to narrow to just the two of them, the entire rest of the room fading away. “It suits you.”

The air between them is heavy, laden with promise. It feels like it had the night of—the night they had—

“You’ll muss it,” Percy says, taking a step back. The moment snaps. 

“I think you could use a little mussing,” Monty says, and it’s nothing more than his usual flirtations, but it falls heavy between them. Monty makes a move to run his hand through his hair and visibly stops himself. Percy carefully tucks his tie back into his vest, straightening the lines. 

“I was watching you,” Monty says after a moment. “I’m so proud of you, Percy.”

God. “Thanks,” Percy chokes out, voice hoarse. 

“You’re going to be amazing,” Monty continues, “I’ll be the one in the back going ‘that’s my best mate!’”

“In the highly coveted world of professional musicians?” Percy asks. He can’t reply to the rest of it. Monty will never be in the back. If anything, Percy is the one in the back, always half a step behind.

“I stand by what I said,” Monty says. “What are you doing talking to me anyway? You can have me anytime—” he stops, flushing. When he speaks again, it comes out a bit hoarse. “Your adoring public awaits!” 

“Yeah, right.” Percy rolls his eyes.

“Go!” Monty says, laughing. He spins Percy around and pushes him forward. Percy goes, grinning. 

* * *

It’s another half-hour before he can extract himself from the crowd again. He’s starting to get the impression that many of the people here believe he has a rags-to-riches back story, that he all but grew up on the streets, that he taught himself the violin and it was only his prodigious ability that lifted him out of poverty.

He doesn’t have the energy to tell them the truth—that he grew up with a wealthy family, if not his parents, and that his best friend and the love of his life is the son of an Earl and a Lord in his own right. That despite his coloring and his disability, he’s always been privileged, and he might have a gift for music but it was supported by some of the best tutors that money could buy.

When he’s tired of the way they talk to him, of the assumptions they make just from looking at him, he does what he always does when he needs support—he looks for Monty. 

It’s never hard to find Monty at parties: he is a glittering jewel, drawing people and attention as easy as breathing. But this time, it takes Percy a few minutes because Monty is, once again, not surrounded by people. He’s watching Percy again, and Percy doesn’t know what to make of the look on his face.

“Are you alright?” Percy asks when he reaches Monty’s side. 

“Yes?” Monty replies, confused. He’s added silver liner to his eyes, and the effect at short range is devastating. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re all,” Percy gestures, trying to find a polite way to put it, “quiet.”

“What are you suggesting?” Monty clutches a hand to his chest as if mortally wounded. 

“That you like attention.”

“I never!”

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Percy says, unable to keep the laugh from his voice.

Monty gasps, clearly gearing up for a bit, but he’s interrupted before he can start.

“Percy!” It’s the conductor again, Percy can’t seem to shake him. One would think that this entire Gala was for Percy’s benefit. “Ah, who’s your friend?”

Percy introduces the two of them, watching Monty put on his showman’s smile and shake the man’s hand politely.

“The infamous Monty!” the conductor says jovially, and Monty’s smile goes stiff and awkward. No one but Percy would be able to tell. There are more than enough reasons why Monty would be considered infamous, none of them good. Then the conductor adds, “Percy has told us so much about you!” 

It’s Percy’s turn to go still, and his first thought is to be glad that it is more difficult to see a flush on him than it is on Monty.

“All good things, I hope,” Monty says, but the look he gives Percy is curious. Is it such a surprise to him? Every one of Monty’s dates has said much the same thing to Percy. 

“Of course, of course,” the conductor claps Monty on the shoulder, his usual genial attitude. When he opens his mouth again, Percy feels a sense of dread. “It’s a pleasure to meet his boyfriend at last!”

Monty goes totally and utterly still, too much for even a casual observer to miss. Which means, god, it’s up to Percy.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Percy says. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

“No?” The conductor looks genuinely surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Monty confirms, looking exactly like how Percy feels. Which is to say, miserable. “My loss, I assure you. He’s quite the violinist.”

Percy marvels at Monty’s ability to change the subject, even as the conductor’s attention is redirected to Percy’s musical abilities. His ears are still ringing with ‘My loss, I assure you.’

It feels like ages before the conductor departs, and blessedly doesn’t drag Percy along with him.

“Sorry about that,” Percy says.

“He seemed nice.”

“He is.” God, what banality. Percy flags down a waiter and grabs two flutes of champagne. “Here,” he passes one to Monty. “Sorry they don’t have anything harder.”

He downs his own in two gulps. The bubbles burn on the way down, it’s not a drink meant to be chugged. 

When he looks back to Monty, he’s still holding his full glass, staring down at it. 

“Monty?”

When Monty looks up at him, his face is conflicted. “I—I—” he takes a deep breath. “Percy, I haven’t had a drink in almost six months.”

Percy is not proud of his first reaction, which is incredulous laughter. It’s only when he sees Monty’s face at the sound—stricken, hurt—that the sound dies away. 

“You’re not serious,” Percy says, but he knows Monty well enough, knows the set of his shoulders and that twist of his mouth, to know otherwise. Monty is dead serious, and Percy’s reaction is hurting him.

“But I’ve seen you.” He doesn’t mean to be arguing, when he can see Monty’s shoulders curling in, see him withdrawing, but he can’t wrap his head around it. “You—I’ve seen you.”

“I didn’t want anyone to—I don’t want to explain that I’m a,” Monty takes a deep breath, bracing himself, “a recovering alcoholic at 26.” Percy sucks in a sharp breath, wanting to protest, but Monty holds a hand to stop him. “It got bad, Percy. I didn’t—I want to be better.”

“But you didn’t want anyone to think you weren’t already at your best,” Percy says, struggling to understand.

“Something like that,” Monty’s mouth twists. “It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to keep having. So I just—I’ve been faking it. Not faking being drunk, I mean. The whole point is that I don’t—” he stops. “Anyway, it’s easy enough to keep a full glass in my hand, to make it seem like I just keep topping it off.” His mouth twists. “It’s what people expect of me.” 

Percy wants to protest, but he can’t form the words, can’t argue. He had expected it, had thought the same thing. Some friend he is.

“It’s not perfect,” Monty says, unaware of Percy’s struggle. “It’s easier at bars. A lot of the bartenders know me,” a smile flashes across his face, “a lot of them support me. It’s easy enough to give me a glass with sparkling water, or a virgin mixed drink. I’ve always tipped well enough.”

Percy is taking Monty’s hand before he can think better of it. The Gala is still spinning around them, but it’s meaningless. All that matters is the weight of Monty’s hand in his, the way Monty looks up at him, the unsure expression on his face. All that matters is understanding.

“I get that but, Monty, why not tell me?”

Monty’s hand jerks in his, like he wants to pull away, but he doesn’t. “Isn’t it obvious, darling?” He won’t look at Percy. “I didn’t want you to know if I failed. I needed to be—I needed to be sure I could do it. Before I told you.”

“So, the night of the Dior party…” Percy trails off.

This time, Monty does pull his hand free. He still won’t look at Percy, and he looks like a man facing an executioner. “Stone sober, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

God, this is not the place to be having this conversation. A woman’s laugh sounds near to them, making them both jump. It’s an eerie contrast to the mood that has settled between them. But then, Percy knows these halls.

“This way,” Percy takes Monty’s wrist—taking his hand feels too intimate now—and pulls him along, cutting through the crowd. He thinks that he hears someone call his name, but he ignores it. 

There’s an unused balcony off the hall, out of sight from the lobby. The night air is cool on his heated skin. The moon is bright enough to make the low lighting unnecessary. It strikes Percy as deeply romantic, and the thought hurts.

He lets Monty go, and Monty just stands there, watching him. When Percy doesn’t speak, Monty spreads his arms. “Well? You dragged me here, darling. I do love a man who takes control but you’re giving me some mixed signals here.”

Percy doesn’t think that his signals have been mixed at all. It’s all green lights, go go go. Everything he does is an unwritten love letter to Monty. 

“If you were sober,” he trails off, not sure what question to ask. “At the Dior party, if you were sober…”

Monty props himself against the low stone wall of the balcony. He looks as aloof and distant as the stars. “Yes?

“Why did you kiss me?” Percy’s voice breaks on the word kiss, he can’t help it. 

“Well, God, Percy,” Monty says, and his voice is tight. “Why does anyone kiss anyone?”

They’re surrounded by open air, a breeze ruffles Monty’s hair, and Percy can’t breathe. 

There is an easy answer to this question, an obvious one, and he can’t seem to wrap his head around it. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

Monty crosses his arms over his chest, still trying for casual but failing more and more every minute. “Say something!” he snaps.

“But you left,” Percy says, and the words feel wrenched from him. “I woke up alone!”

Monty’s arms fall to his side, his mouth drops open. He looks like Percy has punched him, gut struck and wounded. “Is that,” he has to stop, shaking his head. “Is that what all of this has been about?” 

“I thought you were too drunk to know any better, and left the second you could,” Percy says. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. The sentiment is true, but the wording is cruel, and he sees the hit land. Monty reels back.

“Is that what you think of me?” Monty’s voice is soft, hard to hear over the distant chatter from the Gala. 

“What was I supposed to think, when you weren’t even there the next morning?”

“I went to get bagels!” Monty shouts. He hardly ever shouts. “Your fridge is a goddamn barren wasteland, I thought,” he falters, the anger leaching out of him as he wraps his arms around himself. It’s the same way that he’d carried himself when his ribs were broken. “I thought it would be nice. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Percy can only stare at him. This past month, of wanting and hurting and distance, for nothing. Over nothing. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“How could I have known? You made your feelings on the subject more than clear.”

“I woke up alone!” Percy says again, anger coloring his voice.

Monty is shaking his head. “I wasn’t gone more than 20 minutes, you couldn’t have waited long to see if—” He sees the look on Percy’s face. “You didn’t wait at all. You didn’t think there was any point.”

“Monty—”

“I came back to an empty apartment too, you know. But I thought we were on the same page, that you might actually feel the same way, I thought—” He cuts himself off. “I came back to an empty apartment. And it never crossed my mind that you had left. I thought, oh, you must have rehearsal. That you had a meeting this morning and forgot to mention it. I—it never ever occurred to me that you had just walked out.”

When he meets Percy’s gaze, Percy can see that there are tears glittering on his eyelashes, unspilled.

“But then, I trusted you. And you never really trusted me, did you?”

“Of course I do!” Percy protests.

“If you think I would—what? Sleep with you out of convenience, then walk away? That I would be that cruel, that callous? As if I would have ever—that I would risk everything just to even kiss you, if I didn’t— Do you really believe that I would do that to our friendship, to you, if I wasn’t hopelessly in love with you?”

The words echo in the space between them, and Percy feels lightheaded with emotion. 

“Monty, I love-”

“I can’t do this,” Monty steps away from where Percy is reaching for him. “I can’t—I have to—” He turns on his heel, and leaves. It’s not quite a run, but it seems to take no time for him to make it to the glittering crowd of the Gala. 

Percy doesn’t follow him, struck still by the look on Monty’s face as he stepped away. He’s seen Monty hurt before, seen him beaten. He’s seen him rejected and dramatic with it, rejected and quiet with it. He’s never seen him broken before. 

* * *

Percy doesn’t have time to fall apart. The concert is in less than three days, and every spare second is packed with rehearsals and tux fittings and, shockingly, press interviews. The orchestra is a big deal, being made first chair at his age is an even bigger deal, and for all the jokes he had made to Monty, Percy is getting his share of attention. 

He wants to call Monty. Wants to chase after him, metaphorically speaking. He just watched Monty walk away at the Gala, and he doesn’t want that to be his life.

But, petty though it is, Percy is not accustomed to being the one who seeks forgiveness. In the long history that is his relationship with Monty, it is Monty who messes up, or it is a mutual misunderstanding that they will silently pretend never happened. But this time is is clearly, undeniably Percy’s fault. 

He has spent the past month imagining Monty returning to his own apartment, a walk of shame, or sneaking out of Percy’s apartment, hungover and embarrassed. 

But now he can’t help picturing it another way. Of Monty waking up and looking at Percy with affection in his eyes. Of Monty choosing to let Percy sleep after a long night, and getting out of bed carefully so as not to disturb him. Of Monty checking the fridge and finding only beer he refuses to drink and thinking about the romantic gesture of breakfast in bed. 

There is a breakfast place about the ten minute walk from Percy’s flat, and he can so clearly picture Monty making the walk, smiling. Not hungover all, but filled instead with happiness. Percy had seen that happiness so clearly when he had returned Monty’s kiss, when they had curled up together on the couch, when Percy had led Monty into his bedroom and pressed him down onto the mattress.

While Percy been waking up alone, thinking the worst of the person he loved most in the world, Monty would have been waiting in line to get breakfast for the both of them. How closely had they missed one another? If Percy had paused to put on a proper shirt, if he had looked longer for a note, he and Monty would have bumped into one another on his way out.

Instead, Monty had returned to an empty apartment. He would have been excited, so pleased with himself over the thoughtful gesture, ready to surprise Percy with it. He would have been disappointed to find the place empty, but not angry, not upset. Why would he have been? He thought that Percy had a good reason, had never doubted for a second that Percy would just leave.

And then, when Percy had texted. God, the roses were for him. All the idiosyncrasies of that time in the cafe are flooding back. The way that Monty had rushed to hug him, had leaned in for a kiss. Monty had thought they were meeting up for a lunch between- what? Boyfriends? Lovers? Monty had pulled out his chair, had brought him flowers. 

And a hundred other things from the past few months make sense now. Monty’s insistence on paying for Percy’s food, the number of times Monty had showed up at the Opera house, waiting with movie tickets or a new restaurant they just had to try. Monty had been courting him. The kiss hadn’t come out of nowhere, had been the culmination of months of going slow, of trying to show Percy that he wasn’t another conquest, another one night stand. 

Percy has thought, so often over the past year, how much Monty has changed their youth, from college even. Monty, riding the Tube, buying a suit from Harrods, eating a BLT from a local deli. Even the work and effort Monty put into his job. As much as Percy liked to tease that modeling wasn’t a real job, he knew that Monty took it seriously. Monty at 16, Monty at 18, Monty at 20, had taken nothing seriously. Except, perhaps, for Percy. Monty at 22 had said once that Percy was the very best part of him. 

Percy hadn’t been listening. For so long, he hasn’t been listening. 

Percy’s whole life revolves around music, around sound. He can identify a perfect A in a second, can tell in an instant if his violin is even a hair out of tune. He can listen to a song once, maybe twice, and recreate it on the violin, and for this they call him a prodigy. It’s startling to realize how much he hasn’t heard in the meantime. 

He should call Monty, should— not explain, because what is there to explain? He had expected the worst, had seen only what he expected to— but at least apologize. 

Monty saying ‘if I wasn’t madly in love with you’ rings in his ears, and he wants to say that it is reciprocated. He needs to tell Monty that even though he had expected the worst, he had still leapt at the chance, had returned Monty’s kiss and taken him home and god, loved him, even when he thought Monty would never feel the same. 

But he can’t seem to find the words. He dithers, and waits, and worries about giving Monty space, and before he knows it, it’s the day of the concert. 

He’s nervous, but it’s not as bad as the Gala. He knows he can play, knows all the songs and the notes and cues. He’s not worried about that. But he’s terrified that Monty won’t come. Monty has been there at every show Percy has ever done, has turned down jobs in the past because it conflicted with opening night (God, he’s been so oblivious) and the thought that Monty won’t make it tonight almost paralyzes him. It would mean—God—it could mean that their friendship was beyond repair. That he had hurt Monty too badly to recover from.

Percy gets dressed himself, no Monty to show up and calm him down. His hands linger over the blue-grey tie, but he has to wear his tux, can’t improvise on the wardrobe just to match Monty’s eyes. He does cheat a bit, does grab the matching pocket square and tuck it into the breast pocket. He’s not even sure you can wear pocket squares with a tux, but Monty isn’t here to tell him otherwise.

The call time is an hour before curtain, so Percy has plenty of time backstage to continue worrying. The others fret over him, asking him about nerves. It’s far from his first show with them, but it is his first time as first chair, and Shahrazad is a notoriously tricky piece. He doesn’t know how to tell them that his nerves, the way he keeps drumming his fingers on the table and absently checking his phone, have nothing to do with the upcoming performance. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting—a text? A phone call?— but he can’t stop waiting for something. He nearly feels his heart stop when he gets an alert, that Monty has posted a new image on instagram. Monty is diligent about his social media presence in a way that Percy will never be, and though Monty always claims it as branding for his career, he never denies that he enjoys it. 

When Percy pulls up the picture, he feels his breath catch. Monty is at the Opera house, waiting in the lobby for the doors to open. He’s here, when Percy has all but convinced himself Monty wouldn’t make it. But more than that, he’s wearing the second suit he’d tried on that day at Harrods, the one that was a perfect match to Percy’s, a deep charcoal gray that somehow brings out the blue in his eyes. He’d said he wasn’t getting it, but here it is. If Percy was wearing his suit from the Gala, they would be a matched pair. 

It feels as much a statement as Percy wearing the plum tie and pocket square, but hell if he knows what that statement is. He’d hardly known when he was the one making it. 

“Is that your boyfriend?” asks the cello player, leaning over his shoulder to look at his phone. “He’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Percy agrees, meaning only to acknowledge that Monty is attractive, but at her look, he realizes how it sounds. “That is—he’s not. I mean—” he trails off, his face hot.

She pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t hurt yourself. He clearly got all dressed up to support you.”

Percy glances back at the photo. Monty looks tired, looks hurt, but he’s here. He’s here, and he’s wearing a suit he could only have gotten to coordinate with Percy. It’s not nothing. From Monty, who shuts down and closes off when hurt, it’s a lot more than nothing. 

“Five minutes!”

Before he can think better of it, Percy likes Monty’s photo and puts his phone down. He has a show to do.

* * *

There is something about playing the violin, especially with an orchestra behind him, that is unlike anything else. It’s captivating, it’s energizing. It sweeps him away, each note rising and falling like the tide and carrying him along with it.

Under it all, tonight, it the knowledge that Monty is here, that Monty came, despite everything. Every note feels more clear, every pulse of the strings under his fingers feels more pure. Shahrazad is, at its heart, about longing. The King longs to hear to end of the story, and even in the rage and boom of the brass section, that longing hums in the bones.

Shahrazad longs to live, to be free, but more than that. She puts longing into every beat of her story, every note is a plea to be heard, every beat is keep the King enthralled. 

When Percy stands, begins his solo, he thinks of Monty. Every pass of the bow over the strings, every quivering note, it’s all for Monty. Hear me, he says. I love you. I trust you. I’m listening now. I hear you. I long for you. Hear me. 

Every note is a reply to the question he never heard Monty before, but hears now. Yes. Yes, I am yours. Yes, I love you. Yes, I trust you. Yes. Just yes.

When the solo breaks, when the rest of the world floods back in, there are tears on his cheeks and, to his surprise, on the cheeks of the conductor and the second chair violinist who sits beside him. He can’t see anyone else, can’t see into the audience. 

The rest of the song picks up, carries him away, and still he thinks of Monty. Monty doesn’t know music, not like he does. Monty doesn’t hear every perfect note, the thrum of emotion that makes Percy cry every time he hears Tchaikovsky. He can only hope that Monty heard this, heard him. 

The song ends, the concert ends, and they all stand to make their bows. The audience is clapping, is cheering. It’s a standing ovation, and Percy can’t find Monty in the crowd. 

Then the conductor has Percy take his own bow and Percy has the insane urge to make some grand gesture, the kind that Monty would make. To run to the front and shout into the microphone, to proclaim his love in front of everyone here. But he can’t think of what to do, of what would bare his soul more than everything he put into his solo. 

All he can do is hope that Monty waits, that Monty doesn’t leave when the show is over. 

The second the curtain does close, Percy is surrounded, everyone pressing close, congratulating him. He thanks them, smiles, shakes hands, but he wants to leave. He only barely makes it to the dressing room to pack his violin away, and half the orchestra is still behind him.

It is the cellist who saves him. “He needs to go see his maybe-boyfriend!” she says, and he can feel her hands on the small of his back, pushing him through. “He will still be here at rehearsal tomorrow, fawn over him there!”

The orchestra is made of children, because they all make the same cooing ‘ooooohhhhhhh’ noise at him, but he can’t be anything but grateful, because they let him pass. The conductor clasps his shoulder with a jovial wink, but doesn’t say anything else. Maybe they can see the tension thrumming through him, and maybe after two years together they simply know him, but no one else holds him back. It’s a sacrifice, he knows. After that performance, he should let them parade him around again. This could be the breaking point in his career, if he just lets them introduce him to all the right people.

He doesn’t care. 

The lobby is still full, still bustling as people loiter around. He looks for Monty as he always does, looking for the glittering, vibrant center of attention. But, then, this is Percy’s event, and Monty has never tried to draw attention to himself at one of these. 

Instead, guided by instinct, or perhaps the red string that seems to always guide him to Monty, he turns down the same hallway from the Gala, heads to the balcony.

He almost misses Monty out there, the suit just dark enough lose him in the shadows. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Monty says. He’s staring out at the grounds, doesn’t turn towards the door as Percy steps through. 

“I could say the same,” Percy says softly. He lets the door close behind him, cutting off the noise from the lobby. They could be back at the night of the Gala. He flinches as soon as he says it. Is that too much—does the betray another lack of faith in Monty, who has never missed an opening night?

But Monty just turns to face him, and the look on his face could, cautiously, be called a smile. “I wouldn’t have missed this. Not for anything. I’m sorry if I made you think I would.”

“Don’t.” He can’t bear to hear Monty apologize. “It’s not—don’t apologize.”

“I should have called,” Monty says, twisting his hands in front of him. “I just—I needed—”

Percy steps forward and take Monty’s hands in his own. “I hurt you.”

Monty looks up him, his eyes wide and blue. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” and Percy has never felt more sincere about anything in his life. “I didn’t realize—I know how much you’ve changed, how hard you try—”

“Hey now—”

Percy can’t stop the smile that blooms over his face at Monty’s protest. “You can’t hide it from me, Montague.”

Monty makes a face, though whether at the declaration or the name, Percy can’t be sure.

“What I’m saying is, I should have known better.”

“You should have,” Monty says, and he pulls his hands out of Percy’s hold. He does it gently, doesn’t yank away, but the absence aches nonetheless. 

“I came here all ready to be mad at you,” Monty continues. “I mean, I mostly came because I wouldn’t miss it, but even in the lobby I was mad and then—god, the way you played, Percy. And then you come out here in your stupid gorgeous tux and your stupid gorgeous face, and you look at me with those eyes, like I am—like I’m everything, and how can I—”

Percy kisses him. He can’t not kiss him. He feels Monty melt against him, feels him return the kiss. There is a moment—when Monty parts his lips and Percy wants so badly to take—that the kiss could turn dirty. But Percy keeps it light and gentle and Monty follows his lead. 

When Monty pulls away, he looks down at his own hands in dismay. He’s clutched onto Percy’s lapels, and when he takes his hands away, the fabric holds the shape of his fingers. 

“I’ve mussed your suit,” he says woefully, trying to smooth it down.

“I could do with a little mussing,” Percy replies, and he can’t help the smile, can’t help stealing another quick kiss. “Speaking of suits…” He runs his fingers under Monty’s lapels, grinning as Monty blushes.

“It’s a bit plain for my taste,” Monty says, fronting poorly, “but I suppose there were… other advantages.”

“Oh?”

Monty’s fingers close around Percy’s wrists. “Wait, please. Percy, when you were playing. I have to ask but, what were you thinking of? Because if it was fucking Tchaikovsky again, I swear—”

“It was you. Of course it was you.”

Monty had to have been expecting that answer, at least a little, but his eyes still go wide. “Oh.”

“You are everything,” Percy says. “That’s why I look at you like that. Monty, I—” he can’t help but laugh a little, sheer relief at finally getting to say it aloud. “Monty, I’m desperately in love with you too.”

“Oh,” Monty says again. He’s smiling; radiant, stunning, gorgeous. 

“What were you saying about my tux again?” Percy asks, teasing.

He sees Monty’s look change, sees his smile widen, and he’s half expecting the answer when Monty steps up onto his toes to put his mouth directly next to Percy’s ear. “That it would look even better on my bedroom floor.” 

Percy laughs, and his hands close around Monty’s waist. With Monty so close, it’s so easy to turn his head and kiss him again. This time, he lets the kiss deepen, lets himself get swept away, as easy and engrossing as a full orchestra. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, pulling away, but not letting go of Monty’s waist.

He sees the split second hesitation on Monty’s face, and he think he knows the cause. 

“I promise I won’t—” reject you, turn on you, react like I did last time “go to a morning rehearsal.” And he can see the Monty gets it, gets him, in a way that no one else does.

“Alright,” Monty says, “but no way are you getting any bagels.” 

“Deal.”  
  
  



End file.
